The Downfall of Oligarchical Collectivism
by DonovanOrwellFan
Summary: This is the story of a prole from a remote section of Argentina who gets a hold of Winston's journal and Goldstein's book and attempts to lead a revolution.


Prologue

It was frighteningly cold out, and the frosty night breeze intertwined with snow blew across the tired and weary face of Emanuel Goldstein, as he was now finally putting the finishing touches on his book, The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism, what was perhaps soon to be the second largest (The first being Goldstein himself) threat to the Party and to Big Brother. However, at that exact moment, Emanuel was more concerned with what he would do about the dreaded frost that now encompassed him, biting at him with a sharp vigor. The vast Siberian planes of Eurasia had not been good to him during the recent few months of summer, especially the days in which it would seem most inconvenient. Emanuel drew his gaze to face out his open window, which itself was nearly a door, and looked out unto the night sky. His mind became captured with thoughts about how, across the world, whether it be in Oceania, Eastasia, or within another section of Eurasia, another being was gazing up into the very same sky. In that moment, he wondered, as he often did, about the so-called, "Infallibility" of the Party. Deep within himself, Emanuel knew that there would come about a day in which he would pass on to the afterlife, a belief he had previously been outlawed to believe, and that the fabled second revolution he had always dreamed of would come far after his death, if at all.  
He had constantly caught himself pondering as to how the revolution of the mid-twentieth century had gone so wrong. He let out a slight and haggard cough, which he knew was inevitable, and would be pointless to resist. And suddenly, as if in the form of an answer, the words came to him, spoken by a low and raspy voice he had heard once in a dream.  
"Power is not a means, it is an end." the voice spoke, "One does not establish a dictatorship so as to safeguard a revolution, one establishes a revolution so as to safeguard a dictatorship. The object of pursuit is pursuit. the object of torture, is torture. The object of power... Is power."  
Confused at where the words had emerged from, Emanuel could do little more than continue his stare out into the mountains, pondering on the truth and essence of the words. He himself knew what freedom, true freedom meant, and what part it had once played. But that was a time long ago, and a time long from now, he could only hope.  
He laughed, thinking of how, in Oceania, they were probably booing and hissing his image right now, crossing their hands as if to protect themselves from the so-called, "demonic" figure before them, hypotized and thoughtless as a result of the Party's brainwashing. He had once heard rumour that in some parts of Oceania, Airstrip One, to give an example, Party members would often pose as members of the Brotherhood, eventually turning in the enlisted "Traitors" they had recruited straight to the Thougt Police. He could only imagine what they would try next. In any case, he knew that his part in this world was over. HIs book would be passed on through the hands of the great many courageous and free-thinking individuals who would dare wield such a death sentence. Someone now had to come and take his place. Be it Prole or Party member, a new leader must come about. He was sure that the Party, however, would continue to use his image as a rallying icon, pretending that he was still alive a great many years after his actual death. His moustache gathered a tinge of frost upon it's edges, releasing an instinctive twitch on his behalf. He could feel his lungs slowly begin to contract, a result of the high air pressure, he was sure. Or perhaps, it was finally time. In a response to the possible latter, he hobbily trudged his way back to his work desk. The book was now finished. All that remained was to get it out into the world. Thankfully, that was a matter that could be easily accomplished, as the Eurasians had promised to him that they would manuever a way for the book to enter into Oceanian society. He was not sure how they would go about, but it worried him not. The end would justify the means, whatever way they chose.  
What worried him now was that the contraction he had felt earlier in his lungs was now worsening. It was as if they weight of the world was falling upon his increasingly frail chest. He knew it was time, it had to be. He carried his head closer to the microphone so that he might deliver a message unto the Eurasian council, to deliver a convoy for safe transport of the book to be copied later on, hidden completely from the Eurasian public, and eventually smuggled into Oceania. It was no longer his problem. That thought in his mind, the audio message had reached the council within a matter of seconds, and the convoy truck would soon be on it's way.  
It was as if a massive burden had just been lifted from his shoulders. Now, he could finally relax. He could finally give up after all that he had done over the years. His part in the revolution was done. He was the dead, and he accepted that blatant fact with an astute calmness. As if, it truly didn't matter whether he died now or 80 years in the future. The course of the future was laid out, and all he could do was to sit back, and observe how it all played out.  
The convoy truck arrived. Emanuel honestly hadn't expected it to arrive so soon, with the harsh weather conditions and the impending storm. Perhaps the truck was already nearby, he thought. Once again though, it didn't truly matter. The cold and round Mongolian face of the Eurasian soldier came through the door with a brash deliverance. He had half expected the soldier to shoot him right then and there, although such a thing never happened. The soldier came only for what he was ordered, that being the book, and as quickly as he entered, the Eurasian exited.  
It was done. The very last worry that concerned Emanuel had passed. Gently, he limped over toward his armchair, resting softly in the dim moonlight. It seemed almost to call him, beckoning him to sit down. He had no objections to such a proposal. Slowly, he limbered his way unto the chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, despite being crafted of wood. His thoughts finally, one by one, began to dissolve. In a matter of seconds, he had forgotten anything and everything that he had ever done, everything that had ever happened. The whole history of his life now ceased to be present in his mind. Now was his time. And he accpeted such a fact as if he was obliged to, that such a thing was mearly his duty to the world and the way of things.  
Throughout all his life, he had always pondered on what liberation was. True liberation. It seemed now that the answer had finally came to him. As if now, and only now, the revelation he had sought for all his life had reached him at the end of it. The only true liberation, he thought, was death. And with those final words in mind, Emanuel Goldstein, the target of hate and the beacon of sanity in a world where the very definition of right and wrong are decided by an elite few, for the final time in his life, closed his eyes.


End file.
